Perhaps the Jaguar Does
by callensensei
Summary: AU ending to the episode, "The Hunter." Sequel to and spoilers for my story, "A Beast At Bay."
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Gilligan's Island was created by Sherwood Schwartz. "The Most Dangerous Game" was written by Richard Connell. Geniuses, the pair of 'em.**

**Perhaps the Jaguar Does**

_"It will be light enough in Rio," promised Whitney. "We should make it in a few days. I hope the jaguar guns have come from Purdey's. We should have some good hunting up the Amazon. Great sport, hunting."_

_"The best sport in the world," agreed Rainsford._

_"For the hunter," amended Whitney. "Not for the jaguar."_

_"Don't talk rot, Whitney," said Rainsford. "You're a big-game hunter, not a philosopher. Who cares how a jaguar feels?"_

_"Perhaps the jaguar does," observed Whitney._

--Richard Connell, "The Most Dangerous Game"

It seemed the very air was sweating in the hot, dense, murky jungle as Gilligan crouched beneath a squat tree, barely breathing. Even the insects had fallen ominously silent. How long had it been since nightfall? One hour? Ten? He strained to see, but the night was black velvet pressed against his eyes. Something crackled nearby. A whimper of terror rose in Gilligan's throat and he jammed his fist into his mouth to stifle it. He listened again, over the roar of the blood in his own ears.

_Crack! Crack!_

A spurt of fire in the darkness, and the bark beside him exploded.

He ran.

He ran in mindless fear, tearing blindly through the dark, grasping, snaring jungle. Breath burned like fire in his lungs. His heart pounded to the point where it must surely burst. Only one thought still rang in his fevered brain - that at any moment could come the bullet, and he would know no more.

Suddenly something caught his foot and he tripped and fell headlong. As he spun over and looked up, he blinked at the sudden intensity of the light. He had blundered into a grassy glade flooded with the incandescent glow of the full moon. And out of the shadows at the edge of the jungle stepped a rugged man in safari gear – a man with the brightest, coldest eyes Gilligan had ever seen.

Jonathan Kinkaid.

"Just like the moon over the Amazon, Gilligan," the hunter murmured, glancing briefly up as he cocked his rifle.

Gilligan stared at him, frozen.

"I hunted the jaguar there," Kinkaid continued. "Powerful creature. Cunning. Ruthless. The jungle's greatest predator. Until I came along." He looked down at Gilligan and smiled. "Survival of the fittest. That's the law of the jungle."

Gilligan felt as though the very ground was gripping him. He could not move.

"Now come on, stand up," said Kinkaid. "I'd prefer that my first two-legged prey died on its two legs."

Gilligan still did not move. But there came a strange sound from the jungle - a deep, coughing grunt – and the bushes shook, as at the movement of something huge. Kinkaid stared in its direction, his eyes briefly darting back to Gilligan. A flicker of fear crossed the hunter's face.

Then all at once a great beast bounded from the darkness, knocking the hunter flat to the ground and sending the rifle flying into the moonlit grass. As Kinkaid struggled desperately, Gilligan looked at the creature that had pinned his foe. It was like a leopard, its gleaming fur dappled with black rosettes, but it was larger, heavier, with a broad skull and long, curving fangs. It lunged at Kinkaid, its yellow eyes blazing with rage.

"Gilligan!" screamed Kinkaid as he writhed, hands upraised in a futile attempt to ward off those jaws. "Call it off! My God! Call it off!"

Gilligan shook his head. "I can't!"

The hunter's face was almost unrecognizable in its terror. "You've got to help me! Call it off! _Please!_"

"Stop!" Gilligan called faintly, but the great beast ignored him. The massive head lunged down with brutal fury. There was a scream that ended in a horrible crack, like a bolt of lighting, or a shattering of bone.

Gilligan sat watching in horror as the creature's head bent low in the quivering grass.

After a few moments the beast looked up at Gilligan. Its lips drew back in a red snarl, and the fury in its yellow eyes was terrible. Swiftly it leapt over the ragged figure at its feet and hurtled towards him. Gilligan scrambled to his feet and once more ran for his life.

The coughing grunt of a roar sounded again. And then there came a shooting pain in his thigh, like a burning brand, and the weight was bearing him down, down, and at last the scream erupted from his throat.

"Gilligan!"

Gilligan gasped and sat up. He blinked, panting heavily, as he struggled to take in his surroundings. It was dark, yes, but he was in his hut, and it was a blanket that had wrapped itself around him and trapped him, and in a moment there was a candleflame flickering before him. In the light of that flame was a face that could be in no nightmare.

"Gilligan! What is it, little buddy?"

"Skipper!" Gilligan whispered, and clung to the Skipper's arm. After a moment the trembling first mate turned his gaze to the window, where the rain poured down and the jungle momentarily glowed as lightning lit the sky. Thunder boomed and rumbled.

"Gilligan? Are you all right?" This time it was the Professor's voice, and Roy Hinkley slid from the upper hammock to crouch by Gilligan's side. He pressed the back of his hand to Gilligan's forehead. "No fever, at least. Thank goodness the humidity's broken with this rain. We'd better check his wound, Skipper. I'll get him some water."

Shadows hovered as the Professor moved to the far side of the hut. The Skipper set his candle on a nearby stool. "Sorry, Skipper," Gilligan murmured. "The thunder scared me."

The Skipper looked at him searchingly. "Just the thunder?"

"Yeah, Skipper," said the first mate, avoiding the Skipper's eyes.

The Skipper looked at him for a moment longer, then started to fold back Gilligan's blanket. When he eased the last of the cloth back, Gilligan winced slightly. "Still looks awful," he murmured.

"Just be glad it's only a scar. Gilligan, what did I tell you about trying to get in your hammock?"

"Yes," said the Professor as he knelt down next to Gilligan and handed the Skipper a ladle. "That's why we brought my bed in here for you in the first place!"

The Professor pressed the muscles near the long, dark scar on Gilligan's thigh, and the first mate gasped, gripping the Skipper's arm again. "Steady, little buddy," the Skipper murmured, his eyes dark with concern. Outside the lightning flashed again and the thunder rolled.

"Sorry, Gilligan," murmured the Professor. "Here, take some of these. Thank Heaven Mr. Howell was able to find them amongst all that baggage." He handed the young sailor several small tablets. Gilligan swallowed them with a gulp of water from the ladle.

"What do you think, Professor?" the Skipper asked.

"I think it was a miracle there was no major tissue damage. But there's no sense in taking chances." The Professor replaced the blanket. "You're going to have to be more careful, Gilligan. It's a wonder enough that you survived a gunshot wound."

"Even if it was only a graze," added the Skipper. "Goodness knows I've seen my share of what a rifle bullet can do to a man. You've got to take it easy, little buddy. Give yourself time."

Gilligan took another gulp of water and passed a hand over his forehead. "I-I'm sorry, Skipper. I just wanted something to be normal again. Like sleeping in my own hammock. I don't like being low to the ground, in the dark. It feels like I'm back in the jungle, waiting for him."

The Professor, putting away the pills, looked over at him. "Gilligan, Jonathan Kinkaid is dead. He fell in the quicksand. He is dead."

"Yeah," whispered Gilligan, his eyes still full of ghosts.

The Skipper squeezed Gilligan's arm gently. "You saw it happen. You told us about it yourself. You're safe now. It's all over."

Gilligan nodded, closing his eyes and shivering.

The Professor eyed him carefully. "The medicine should take care of the pain and help you sleep. Do you want us to sit up with you until then?"

"No…no, it's okay, Professor." Gilligan wiped his lips on his arm and handed the ladle back to the Skipper. "You two go back to bed. I'll be all right."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, Skipper. I'm sure."

"Well…I'll get you a cup to leave beside you, then." The Skipper grunted as he stood up and headed for the water keg.

Meanwhile, the Professor climbed back into Gilligan's hammock. "Goodnight, Gilligan. And trust me. Things will get back to normal eventually. I promise."

"Sure. Thanks, Professor."

Gilligan lay back on the bed, listening to the steady fall of the rain. He almost didn't hear the soft rustle of the cup being set on the grass-covered stool behind him. Then the Skipper's face was in the candle-flame again. "Goodnight, Gilligan. Now you just sing out if you need us, okay?"

"Okay."

"And don't worry." There was that reassuring squeeze on his arm again. "You're safe now, little buddy. There's nothing for you to be afraid of."

The flame went out, and a few moments later there was no sound but the steady streaming of the rain and the low rumble of the thunder. Gilligan lay sleepless, staring into the shadows as if in search of a pair of yellow eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

The island lay wet and dripping in the sunshine the next morning. In the centre of the castaways' camp, six of the seven shipwrecked castaways prepared for breakfast.

"Golly, that sure was some thunderstorm last night," said Mary Ann as she scraped out the meat of a coconut into a large bowl. "Thank goodness you men have kept the huts waterproofed with tar, or we might have been flooded right out of our beds!"

"The rain has its positive side, Mary Ann. That storm will have replenished our underground water table nicely," said the Professor, who was helping Ginger set the table.

"That's great, Professor," said the Skipper. "And that reminds me: the camp supply of water is getting low. I'll need someone to help me bring some back."

"I'd be glad to help, Skipper," said Ginger.

The Skipper smiled at her. "Why, that's very good of you, Ginger, but you're not really big enough to carry much. I was thinking more along the lines of Mr. Howell." He fixed the rich couple with a look, but neither moved from their chaise lounges.

Mr. Howell's aristocratic fingers drummed lightly against his cheek. "Well – I'll admit I don't mind playing the part of the friendly water boy. Just hand me a cup and we'll be on our way."

"Not a cup, Mr. Howell. A bucket."

Howell gasped. "Did you say a bucket, Captain? The only buckets I ever deal with are filled with ice and Dom Perignon!"

"Well, this one's going to be filled with water – in fact, maybe two buckets! We can wash in the lagoon, but we need fresh water to drink!"

"Well then, count me out, Captain. I'll stick to my bubbly. In any case, fetching water is a task for the young! It's Gilligan's detail!"

Suddenly everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at the millionaire. Mrs. Howell tapped his arm. "Thurston," she whispered.

Mr. Howell's face went ashen. He sat up. "Oh, great heavens, Captain! I do beg your pardon."

The Skipper glowered like a stormcloud. "Gilligan can't fetch water any more than he can climb a tree and collect coconuts. He's lucky he can walk, Howell. He's lucky to be alive!"

"Captain, truly, I'm terribly sorry. I wasn't being facetious, I assure you. And of course I haven't forgotten what that villain Kinkaid did to the boy." Mr. Howell looked at the ground for a moment and clutched his wife's gloved hand. "Just…can't bear to think about it, that's all."

For a few moments Mary Ann stopped scraping as her eyes blurred with tears. "Neither can I. And to think of it happening to Gilligan, of all people! He's so gentle - how could he ever defend himself against someone like Kinkaid? If Kinkaid hadn't accidentally fallen into the quicksand, Gilligan wouldn't have stood a chance!"

"Yes," murmured the Professor thoughtfully. "It was a miracle of good fortune that Kinkaid stumbled onto that patch of quicksand, considering it's one of the very few on the island."

Mrs. Howell squeezed her husband's hand. "I never would have thought we might be grateful for that dreadful quicksand one day! But what about the pills Thurston found, Professor? Have they been able to help the poor boy?"

"I believe so, Mrs. Howell. And his wound is healing at a very encouraging rate."

"I would never have believed it, when you first brought him back," whispered Ginger, as she stood clutching a plate. "I don't think I would have made much of a nurse, with that kind of reaction to blood."

"Nonsense, Ginger. You did a fine job of nursing him. You all did."

Mrs. Howell looked up at the Skipper. "I still can't bring myself to believe it all happened. Captain, when you and the Professor first carried Gilligan into camp it was like some horrible dream!"

"Believe me, Mrs. Howell, I'm going to have bad dreams enough to last me a lifetime," murmured the Skipper. "And when I think of what Gilligan must be dreaming about!"

The Professor looked at him. "Ah. You too? I was certain he was lying about the thunder last night."

"I'd bet my last dollar on it."

"What do you mean?" asked Mary Ann.

"He woke up screaming, Mary Ann. Hung onto me like I was a life preserver."

"Oh, no. That bad? Wouldn't Gilligan tell you about it?"

"He never does. Not these dreams, anyway." The Skipper sighed and leaned his chin on his fist. "And it's got me really worried, because he usually tells me all about his crazy dreams, good or bad. But something's made him clam up this time. I sure wish I knew what it was."

"Yes," said the Professor. "Gilligan's reticence is most disturbing. In fact, I'm far more worried about his mind than his body. That's the part that's going to be a long time healing."

Mary Ann bit her lip. "Isn't there anything we can do?"

"Not much, except to try to see that he gets sufficient food and sleep, and kept him under observation for the time being."

"But how do we keep him under observation?" asked Ginger. "As soon as he recovered enough to get around on that crutch the Skipper made for him, he started disappearing on us! It's as though he's avoiding us!"

"I think he is, Ginger," the Skipper murmured. "At least he doesn't go very far away, thank goodness."

"You know where he goes, Captain?" asked Mrs. Howell.

The Skipper nodded. "Usually he can give me the slip pretty easily, but not on a crutch. I followed him the very first time he snuck off. He left again early this morning." The Skipper looked at the jungle as though trying to pierce it with his eyes. "He goes to a little pool that's surrounded by mango trees. Pretty little place."

"But what does he do?"

"Nothing much, Mrs. Howell. He just sits there on a rock and looks at the water. When I caught up to him I made him promise that he wouldn't go anywhere else. Well, he promised. But then he made me promise that I wouldn't follow him anymore." Wearily, Jonas Grumby pushed back his captain's hat. "I wish he'd just talk to me."

"I hope he's coming back for breakfast," said Mary Ann. "I'm making all his favourites. I even found some coconuts the storm knocked down so I could make a pie for later."

The Skipper smiled gratefully at her. "Sweetheart, you're one in a million. Yeah, he's coming back. He told me."

"Excellent." The Professor nodded. "Keeping his strength up is of vital importance. Now remember: keep the breakfast conversation light!"

"As well as the banana cream, Mary Ann. It plays havoc with my delicate digestion." Thurston Howell patted his middle gently. "And now, Captain, if you'll show me to my buckets, shall we be on our way?"

Gilligan did appear for breakfast, as he had promised. He hobbled to the table on his crutch as everyone gave him room. Mary Ann hurried over with a heaping dish of fried turtle eggs. "I'm making a coconut cream pie for tonight's dessert, Gilligan. I hope you'll be hungry."

"I doubt it," he murmured, then shook himself. "You don't have to do that, Mary Ann."

"But I want to."

"I'm sure it'll be great, Mary Ann," said the Skipper, as he slid to the middle of the bench, next to Gilligan. "Come on, little buddy. Dig in." He flipped several eggs onto Gilligan's plate and garnished them with a banana. Gilligan barely noticed.

The others watched Gilligan's moody disinterest with dismay. Mr. Howell sat up, eager to ease the tension. "I say, Professor, what on earth was that contraption I saw you tinkering with this morning? Had a long metal shaft on it. What was it, a lightning rod? Heaven knows we could use one after last night!" He laughed. "Did I ever tell you about the time my Uncle Egbert went golfing during a thunderstorm? He made a hole in one – the hard way!"

"Uh…" The Professor looked slightly uncomfortable at being asked. "It was a speargun, Mr. Howell. A replacement for the one that broke, that's all."

"Gee, Professor, why do we need another speargun?" asked Ginger. "To help catch fish?"

The Professor nodded gratefully. "Exactly, Ginger. Exactly my thought. It will make it much easier to supplement our piscatorial diet."

"My goodness, Professor!" said Mrs. Howell. "I never knew the cuisine at the equator had a name. Thurston, I wonder if our chef Henri in our house in New York ever prepared it?"

Mr. Howell laughed. "Well, if he didn't, one of the chefs in our other forty-nine houses probably did!"

The castaways laughed, though they kept throwing sideling glances at Gilligan, who was toying listlessly with his food.

Encouraged by the laughter, Mr. Howell increased his efforts at gaiety. "Well, Professor, at least that will be a far more practical use than the last time you built us a speargun! That Randolph Blake case! What a pretty how-de-do!"

The castaways stirred uneasily. Gilligan blinked as though there was something painful in his eye.

"And you, my boy," continued Mr. Howell, nudging Gilligan gently. "You with your sleuthing and your Perry Mason obsession! You had everyone fixed as the culprit! Ha ha! Even a Howell!"

Gilligan didn't respond, though his eyes grew ever more haunted. He still had not touched his food.

"Would anyone like some more turtle eggs?" asked Mary Ann, watching Gilligan like a hawk. "They're best when they're fresh!"

Mr. Howell continued undeterred. "And your speargun, Professor! Remember all of that folderol? Dressing up the hut to look like a fishmonger's shop? What absolute nonsense!"

The Skipper and the Professor traded wary glances. "It was a lesson in trust for all of us," said the Professor quietly. "I hope we all now know we can trust each other!"

"Well said, Professor!" agreed Mr. Howell. "After all, as you so wisely said at the time, it's difficult to think of one of us as a killer!"

It was too late. All noise at the table ceased. Thurston Howell realized what he'd done and would given his millions to have taken back that last word.

Then Gilligan spoke, in a voice so low they had to strain to hear it.

"What was that, little buddy?" the Skipper asked nervously.

Gilligan fixed him with a terrible look. "I said Mr. Howell is wrong. One of us is a killer."

"What?"

"I am_."_

The Skipper's jaw dropped. _"_What did you say?"

_"I said I am_! _I killed Jonathan Kinkaid!"_

The castaways stared, thunderstruck, as Gilligan lurched to his feet, grabbing at the table for support. The story came out of him like a summer tempest.

"You heard me! I killed him! I lured him to that quicksand! I took away all the vines so he couldn't save himself! I watched him jump right in when I knew there was no way out!"

"Oh, my God…little buddy!" The Skipper's hand reached out to him, but Gilligan jerked away.

"Kinkaid said I didn't have what it takes. But I do. I never thought I could hate somebody so much!" Gilligan sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, and when he spoke, his voice nearly failed him. "And it hurt so much! When I saw him take that jump I was so happy I wanted to laugh out loud!" He looked brokenly at his friends. "To laugh - because somebody was gonna die! Like Kinkaid did to me!"

The castaways sat as if turned to stone. Then they all burst out.

"You're not like him!" cried Ginger.

"Not a bit like him!" roared the Skipper. "That's the craziest thing I ever heard!"

"Dear boy," cried Mrs. Howell, "that man was a barbarian!"

"He was a madman!" insisted her husband. "As diseased as they come!"

"Then what if he's given it to me?" whispered Gilligan.

Mary Ann had half-risen from her seat. "Gilligan, you can't believe that! Please, listen to us!"

"What you did you did in self-defense!" urged the Professor. "You had every right!"

"To kill him? Yeah, maybe, Professor! But not to feel that way about it!"

The Skipper got to his feet and clutched Gilligan's arm. "Gilligan, little buddy, you've got to let me explain something to you!"

"No, Skipper. Nobody can explain this to me! I've gotta work it out for myself. Otherwise, I'm never gonna be able to live with myself!" Gilligan tore himself free again, picked up his crutch and stumbled towards the jungle.

The Skipper took a step after him. "Gilligan!"

Gilligan shook his head. "No, Skipper. You promised. Don't follow me!"

When he was gone, the Skipper slumped back into his chair and slammed his fist on the table in frustration.

"Skipper," the Professor murmured, laying a hand on his arm.

"I can't reach him, Professor. But Kinkaid can, and he's going to drag my little buddy right into the grave with him!" The Skipper looked up, his face creased with despair. "We could mend his leg, Professor. How do we mend his heart?"

The Professor shook his head. "Therein the patient must minister to himself."


	3. Chapter 3

Gilligan hobbled through the jungle in such blind desperation that it was almost a surprise when he reached the place where his feet had automatically taken him: the mango pool.

It _was_ pretty: gloriously pretty, with a strange serenity that seemed to come from its being so hidden away. Soft, hazy sunlight filtered through the canopy of leaves and hovered like mist against the sheltering green of the jungle. Where the light hit the water the pool sparkled turquoise, and tiny orange fish darted amid the shadows. A path fringed with orange fire-opal flowers meandered along the edge of the pool to where the slender young mango trees slept in the morning stillness.

Gilligan took a moment, breathing deeply, conscious of a deep pang of loss. He had loved this place from the moment he had first found it, but now its peace and beauty could not touch him. He was lost.

He eased himself down to sit on a flat rock by the edge of the pool. Leaning forward, he gazed at his reflection in the barely moving water. "Who are you?" he whispered. "Do I even know you anymore?"

He dragged off his hat and plunged it into the pool, scattering his image into a thousand ripples. He pulled the hat up, streaming, and poured the water over his aching head. The water was deliciously cool, but he took no comfort from it. He scooped some up to drink, but after only a brief sip, let it weep through his fingers as he buried his face in his hands.

Several minutes passed before he was even aware that something was crying.

At first the sound was so soft he thought he had imagined it. Then he heard it again. He sat up, looking around. Listening intently now, he heard it once more: a soft, sharp cry of something in pain.

It seemed to be coming from the bushes. Instinctively, Gilligan followed it, creeping slowly to where the foliage grew dense and lush behind the shafts of light. "Where are you?" he whispered. "What's wrong?"

The cry sounded yet again. Gilligan knelt down to peer into the shadows, and all at once he started and nearly forgot to breathe. Staring back at him was a pair of yellow eyes.

The young sailor sat back sharply, tense with fear, until he realized that whatever the creature was, it must be very small. And it was hurt. He leaned forward, carefully lifted away the thick fronds and hanging leaves, and gasped. There before him was the beast of his nightmare.

And yet it was not. It was _very _small. Though it had the same dark gold fur dappled with black rosettes, the same rounded ears and long tail, this slender creature was no bigger than a housecat. Gilligan's fingers could almost span the delicate throat, and the fine limbs were hardly wider than his thumb. The huge eyes gleamed in the tiny triangular face.

Gilligan stared in wonder. "Oh, what are you? You're beautiful!"

The little wild cat made no move to run away. It only made that soft cry.

"What's the matter? Are you hurt?" He held out his hand. "Come on. Don't be scared."

The creature stepped forward a few paces, its eyes never leaving Gilligan's. Gilligan noticed its gait was off as it hopped clumsily on one hind leg. Then he saw the bright red gash on the creature's thigh.

"Oh, you poor little guy! What happened?" The cat leaned forward to sniff Gilligan's hand. "There, you see? You can trust me. Take it easy, now – I wanna have a look at that leg." Gilligan reached down and fingered the limb with great care. "Doesn't feel broken. Here, let me clean it up for you." He pulled out his handkerchief and leaned over to dip the corner into the pool, then cleaned and carefully bound the wound. "It hurts, doesn't it? I know. I wish I could do something more for you."

The cat rose a bit and rested a paw on Gilligan's leg as if in invitation. "Can I? Oh, gosh, I'd love to!" Gently he lifted the creature into his lap, marvelling at how his fingers sank into the warm, velvety softness of its fur.

The first mate looked at the gleaming black and gold coat, the sleek, muscular body, and those strange, deep, incisive eyes. "I don't get it," he murmured. "You look so much alike…but you're so little. So gentle."

The little cat cried again, and Gilligan was moved with pity. "Hey, shhh. It's all right. I've got you."

He stroked the creature and spoke softly to it, amid the hushed murmur of the insects and the soft music of the birds.

Back at the camp, the castaways had sat slumped around the table for a time in dejected silence. Finally, Mary Ann spoke for them all. "Oh…it's so unfair! To think of Gilligan with that kind of guilt on his conscience? Where's the justice in that? _Kinkaid_ was the murderer! Gilligan is the sweetest, most gentle boy I've ever known!"

Jonas Grumby clenched his fists 'til his knuckles went white. "Oh Mary Ann – if there were any justice, it would have been me!"

"Kinkaid said you were too big a target," Mr. Howell observed quietly.

"I meant it would have been me that put paid to Kinkaid, Howell!" the Skipper snapped. "I'm the Skipper! I'm the one that's supposed to look out for everybody! This is all my fault! My little buddy never should have had to do this!"

"No, no, it's my fault," said the Professor. "I should have thought of some way to outwit Kinkaid. Instead I just sat spouting nonsense about positive thinking!"

"I should have offered Kinkaid my entire fortune," said Mr. Howell. "Anything would have been a better price than this!"

"You tried, Mr. Howell," said the Professor sadly. "Kinkaid simply wasn't interested in money."

Mr. Howell shook his head in incomprehension. "That's true. Gilligan was the first man I ever met who was too good to accept a bribe. Kinkaid was the first who was too evil."

"I should have made sure he drank that potion I gave him," said Ginger, shuddering as she remembered the hunter's arms around her. "And I should have made it poison!"

"Oh, I wish I'd distracted that awful servant of his a good deal sooner!" said Mrs. Howell. "You men might have been able to do something!"

"You were incredibly brave, Mrs. Howell," insisted Mary Ann. "So was Ginger. I just sat there and cried. A lot of good that did!" She stood up. "Well, I'm through with just wringing my hands and hoping for the best. I can't bear to think of Gilligan out there alone, thinking what he's thinking! I'm going to go find him!"

The Skipper caught her arm. "Mary Ann, it's no use! You heard what he said!"

"I heard what he said, Skipper, and that's why he shouldn't be alone! That was a cry for help if I ever heard one!"

The Skipper shook his head wearily. "Mary Ann, believe me, it's eating me up inside to think of my little buddy feeling guilty about Kinkaid, after what that monster put him through! But you know what Gilligan's like with his wild ideas. You can't just lecture or cajole him back to normal! He shuts you out!"

"I'm afraid you're right, Skipper. Nevertheless, I share Mary Ann's concern," said the Professor. "Gilligan isn't rational in his present state; in fact, judging by what we've just seen, he may even be driven to do something deperate. We must find some way to temporarily disassociate him from his current state of self-condemnation so that we can begin to reinforce his ego identity."

"By Jove, Professor, there's enough material in that speech for a whole psychiatrist's convention," said Mr. Howell. "If that's what the poor boy requires, I'm afraid we've got a losing battle on our hands."

The Skipper looked up sharply at those words. His brow lowered and he fingered his chin in thought. "Say…maybe not, Mr. Howell. If we could just distract my little buddy somehow…get him calmed down enough for me to talk to him…maybe there is a way. At least it's worth a try."

"But distract him with what?" said Ginger. "Beauty won't do it. Food won't do it. What do we have that's bigger to Gilligan right now than his own pain?"

The Professor threw up his hands. "I've no idea, Ginger. But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it!"

"Well, come on, then! What are we waiting for?" cried Mary Ann. "Let's go!"

"All right," said the Skipper. "Follow me. I know the way."

At least the Skipper thought he did. But the pool was so well hidden in the maze of the jungle's light and shadow that he led them past it several times without realizing. Finally he took a chance and pushed his way through the foliage, and was rewarded by a flashing glimpse of turquoise.

"Gilligan!"

"Gilligan, are you there?"

"Gilligan, my boy, where are you?"

As the castaways came up the path they saw Gilligan look up from where he was sitting by the edge of the pool, and all breathed a sigh of relief. The Skipper surged forward. "Little buddy! Gilligan! Thank goodness you're all right! I—" He stopped suddenly as he saw the look on Gilligan's face. "Oh, please don't look at me like that!"

To Jonas Grumby's relief, Gilligan sounded more sad than angry. "I said I wanted to be alone, Skipper."

"I know you did. I'm real sorry I had to break my promise to you, little buddy, but we were so worried about you! We just didn't think it was a good idea for you to be alone right now! We're only trying to help you! "

"But I wasn't alone, Skipper. And now you've scared him away!"

The Skipper drew back, blinking in complete surprise. "What? Scared who away?"

"The little cat," said Gilligan, with true worry in his voice. "He was hurt and I was trying to help him!"

It was the second surprise Gilligan had sprung upon them in one morning. The castaways all stared at each other, their eyes widening in epiphany. Mary Ann crept forward and knelt down, almost afraid to scare Gilligan away. "Oh, we're sorry, Gilligan! We didn't mean to! Like the Skipper said, we were worried." She tried to force her voice into a more conversational tone. "But...gee...I never knew there were any cats on the island. Where did you find him?"

"I didn't; he found me. He just showed up a little while ago." Gilligan looked off towards the bushes. "I sure hope he comes back. I'm real worried about him!"

"Oh, the poor thing." Ginger bit her lip, trying to improvise. "I had a little cat once. He used to climb the tree in the front yard all the time and then he couldn't get down. I got dates with a lot of handsome firemen that way."

"I think he fell out of a tree," said Gilligan softly. "He hurt his leg. He sat here with me and let me hold him."

"Wh-why…how sweet, dear boy!" said Mrs. Howell gently. She gave a little embarrassed laugh. "It's strange…I suppose I must be getting over my allergy to the creatures. I don't even feel the least inclined to sneeze, and I'm usually in a dreadful mess whenever there's a cat in the vicinity."

The Professor knelt to Gilligan's level as well. "Gilligan, you intrigue me: I'm very interested in this cat of yours. I wish you'd tell me more about it."

Gilligan looked back at him, almost suspicious. "Why?"

"Merely scientific curiousity," said the Professor innocently. "Cats are not indigenous to this part of the world. I'm wondering what species the creature belongs to. And besides—" the Professor's eyes suddenly lit with a burst of inspiration, "it may help me to advise you as to how to care for it."

"Oh! Do you think so?" For a moment there was something like hope in Gilligan's voice. "I'll try, Professor." The first mate frowned in intense concentration as the others traded glances and crossed fingers. "Well, he's only about this big," Gilligan said, holding up his hands, "and he's just beautiful. Yellow fur, black markings, long tail, and the biggest yellow eyes I've ever seen. He looked like a little tiny leopard."

"I say, sounds rather like an ocelot," said Mr. Howell. "Our neighbour Mrs. Vandermere used to parade one about on a leash. That woman always had to be the first in the neighbourhood to have anything."

"I don't think this is an ocelot," said the Professor. "The creature Gilligan's described is too small. No, Gilligan, I'd say what you've got there is a margay: one of the smallest of the South American jungle cats."

"South America…" Gilligan gasped. "Yeah, Professor, I think you're right!" He looked searchingly into the distance, as if trying to capture a distant memory.

"What is it, little buddy?" asked the Skipper.

"I remember now, Skipper…I went to the zoo once, a long time ago, when I was a kid. There was a travelling exhibit with animals from South America, and they had one of these little guys. And I remember, that was the name! A margay!"

"Yes, the Amazon jungle is inhabited by a number of feline species," explained the Professor. "Everything from the little margay to the ocelot to the 'beast that kills with one bound:' the jaguar."

Now Gilligan's eyes went huge and dark. "The jaguar!" he whispered. "So that's what it was!"

Everyone noticed the sudden change. "What's wrong, Gilligan? What do you mean?" asked the Professor cautiously.

Gilligan shivered. "I remember now: the zoo had one of those too. It was huge. It kept pacing around, snarling at the bars, and when it roared it didn't sound like a lion's roar: it was more like a weird, deep grunt. It scared me half to death."

Mary Ann looked at the Professor worriedly, then leaped in, trying to keep the conversation moving. "Gosh, Professor, if these little margays live in the jungle with jaguars, how do they manage not to get eaten?"

"Oh, they've evolved a very efficient mechanism for survival, Mary Ann. You see, the two species don't compete with each other. Each has their own special role to play, and they almost never meet."

The Skipper's eyebrows rose. "How do they never meet if they're both in the same jungle?"

"It's simple, Skipper. The jaguar prowls the darkness of the jungle floor. With its strength and ferocity and cunning, it can handle prey far too large for the delicate margay. Meanwhile, the margay hunts high in the treetops, where the jaguar could never reach. And unlike its fierce cousin, the margay is a gentle creature. Gilligan claims to have actually tamed this one."

The first mate shuddered. "I don't think I'd want to try and tame a jaguar."

"A lion's pretty fierce too," said Mary Ann. "But Daniel tamed one. So did you."

Gilligan looked up in surprise in her words, then looked away.

"Little buddy, we'd be glad to help you look for him."

Gilligan shook his head. "Thanks, Skipper, but I don't think that'll work. He's too shy. Maybe if you all go away, he might come back. But I want to stay here and make sure he's okay."

"Well, I--" the Skipper caught the Professor's surreptitious nod. "Well, sure, Gilligan, if that's what you want. But what if he doesn't come back right away? Do you mean to stay out here all night?"

Gilligan looked worried for a moment, looking around. The Skipper seized his chance.

"Because I'd be glad to come back and camp out here with you for the night, little buddy."

Though it was a very tentative smile, it was still the first one the castaways had seen on Gilligan's face since the night before the hunt. "Thanks, Skipper. I'd like that."


	4. Chapter 4

By night, with the moon hidden behind a mantle of clouds, the mango pool was a place of shadow and mystery. It was too dark to see far beyond one's hand; the only thing the Skipper and Gilligan could see in the warm gold flames of the campfire was each other. The Skipper had set up a simple camp: just a small fire and a couple of blankets on beds of piled palm fronds. He had not even bothered with a lean-to, for the pool was so sheltered that both men already felt that their heads were not houseless.

Lying on his side and facing the fire, the Skipper looked across at his first mate. "I wish you wouldn't take it so hard, little buddy. Just because he hasn't come back doesn't mean there's something wrong with him. The Professor said that cats are real shy out in the wild."

"That's funny. I wonder why he wasn't shy with me this afternoon, then. He sat with me for hours after you'd all left, and then just as I heard you calling, he disappeared again. Now it's dark and he's out there all by himself!"

"Gilligan, little buddy, I told you. He's a cat. Cats like to go off and prowl at night. He's probably just off somewhere, looking for his dinner."

Gilligan sighed. "Gee, I'd hate to think of him out there all alone and still hurting. But his leg seemed a bit better today. Maybe you're right."

The Skipper poked the fire gently, sending up a shower of sparks. "I'm sure I am. Say, speaking of legs, how's yours doing?"

"Not bad, actually. I haven't noticed it much today."

"That's good to hear."

Gilligan shifted slightly. "Uh, Skipper…I'm sorry I yelled at you this morning. I really am glad you're here with me. I thought I wanted to be alone – but I don't."

"Don't mention it, little buddy." The Skipper decided to test the waters. "You look tired. Haven't been sleeping so good lately, have you?"

"No, Skipper."

"Not just the leg, is it?"

"No, Skipper."

"Uh huh." The Skipper waited to see whether Gilligan would volounteer anything more. When he didn't, the old sea dog sat up. "Well, Gilligan, tonight I'm the ship's doctor. I've got a little prescription for you."

Gilligan's eyebrows rose. "A prescription?"

"Yup. Right out of the old Skipper's sea-chest. Guaranteed to help you get your forty winks."

"What is it?"

"I'm going to tell you a few of my war stories."

Gilligan couldn't hide a small smile. "To help me get to sleep? That might just work, Skipper. Sure has before!"

"Mmmm." The Skipper hid his delight at Gilligan's actually making a joke. "Very funny! But these are going to be a little different." The Skipper leaned back, his tone suddenly growing more serious. "Gilligan, I'm going to tell you about what happened to me at Pearl Harbour."

The young navy man looked up in great surprise. He shifted so that he could see the Skipper better. "Skipper? I…I know you were there," Gilligan said quietly. "But I know you don't like to talk about it. That's why I've never asked."

"Thanks, little buddy. It's not an easy thing to talk about. But I'd like to, now."

Gilligan looked at him searchingly over the drifting tendrils of smoke. "You sure, Skipper?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"I'm listening."

The Skipper looked into the crackling fire again and took a deep breath. "Well, it started just like this. The night before was very calm and still, just like now. We had no warning at all. The only reason I wasn't aboard my ship that morning was because I'd been given a special pass to go ashore to take care of a personal matter for one of the officers. I got back to the harbour just as the Japanese hit."

"Skipper," said Gilligan carefully, "what ship were you supposed to be on?"

"The _Arizona_."

"Oh, Skipper. Oh, my God." Both men were silent for a few moments as the campfire flames seemed to grow into the terrible conflagration of the doomed ships.

At last the Skipper continued. "Well, you've seen the newsreels. You know what it looked like. It was chaos. There wasn't even any ammunition for the anti-aircraft guns: it was all locked away." He closed his eyes and took another deep breath, then let it out swiftly. "When I saw my ship going down, and thought of all my buddies – boys the same age as me, the same age as you are now, Gilligan – going down with her, without a chance, I got more mad than I've ever been in my life. I got so mad, you know what I did?"

Gilligan's eyes were dark with sympathy. "No, what?"

"I grabbed a pistol and I started firing at the Japanese airplanes as they came down to strafe us. Crazy thing to do; shooting at planes with a pistol, you know? But I was so mad I just couldn't control myself!"

"Well, of course you couldn't, Skipper!" cried Gilligan, briefly reaching out and laying a hand on the Skipper's arm. "With an unprovoked attack like that, and no chance for your buddies to defend themselves? Who could blame you?"

The Skipper shrugged. "Well, after that I couldn't wait to see some real action. You know I was at the landing of the transports at Guadalcanal. We had a bit of a rough reception, but we made it. But I never did tell you that I went back out on one of the cruisers in the first battle of Guadalcanal."

"You did? Was that one of the three ships that got shot out from under you?"

"No." The Skipper flashed a brief smile. "No, that's another story. But boy, talk about a game played in the dark! Our force had shipped out into Ironbottom Sound to try to prevent the Japanese from taking the Henderson Airfield on Guadalcanal. That was one of the scariest nights of my whole life."

"What happened?"

"I'll never forget it." The Skipper gestured with his arm at the stygian darkness. "It was a night like this: pitch-black, with no moon. The whole column was lying there on a sea as smooth as black glass. And all of a sudden, the broadsides began. The flares were shooting up into the sky like red stars. And there was the Japanese fleet, all around us."

"You fought at night?" Gilligan whispered.

"Uh huh. Let me tell you, Gilligan, a sea-battle by day is no picnic, but at night, it's ten times worse. It was like being a barroom brawl with the all the lights out. You couldn't see which way to hit, or where the hits were coming from. You just fought for all you were worth. And you never knew when the hit was going to come that had your name on it."

Gilligan closed his eyes briefly. "Were you afraid, Skipper?"

"I was almost out of my mind, Gilligan," his friend replied quietly. "What sane man wouldn't be?"

"Yeah." After a moment, Gilligan spoke again. "Did you get hit bad?"

"Not as bad as some of our ships. We lost quite a few: even the big destroyers."

"Did the men get out?"

"Some did. Some didn't." The Skipper poked the fire again, and the sparks flew up, like the hot shower of an explosion. "The boys on the _Cushing_ had some warning; they had time to get to the lifeboats. But the boys on the _Laffey _weren't so lucky; they were surrounded by enemy destroyers. A torpedo hit their keel, and then their magazine caught on fire. She went up like a volcano. And then she went down."

"Gosh." Gilligan looked at the Skipper intently. "Did you see any of the Japanese ships go down?"

"Yeah. We sank the _Akatsuki_ fairly early on. She went up in smoke just like the _Laffey_."

Gilligan nodded and hesitated, and then all at once he asked the question he had to ask. "Skipper – how did you feel, when you saw you'd sunk the enemy?"

"At the time?" The Skipper looked him straight in the eyes. "I won't lie to you, little buddy. I was cheering. We all were. To go from feeling scared and trapped to feeling powerful? I tell you, it just surges through you like a storm on the sea. It's only afterwards, when you think about it…when I think of those Japanese boys, who were just following orders and maybe really believed they were defending their own country…"

"But they attacked first," Gilligan insisted. "You had to defend yourselves! And who knows what the enemy might have done to the civilians if they'd gotten past you? What else could you do?"

"Exactly, Gilligan. Exactly. I'd do the same thing all over again. But I wouldn't like to feel that first rush of joy for very long. It can turn dark pretty fast. And once in awhile, men get taken over by it. They get caught in that storm and can't get out."

"But most of them don't. You didn't." There was a desperate note of hope in Gilligan's voice now. "Skipper…how did you do it? What's the secret?"

Again the Skipper met his eyes. "There's no easy answer, Gilligan. Every man's got to find it for himself. As for me, I just told myself I had to remember who I really was, and what I was really fighting for." He reached over and, just for a moment, grasped Gilligan's hand in a firm grip. "And I've never stopped believing that there's good in the world - and in myself."

Gilligan's eyes glistened; his voice grew very soft. "Thanks, Skipper."

"You're welcome, little buddy." The Skipper smiled as he noticed Gilligan's eyelids start to flicker. "Say, I think my prescription's working."

The young sailor stifled a yawn. "Oh, I'm sorry, Skipper."

The Skipper leaned on his arm. "Don't apologize. You must be beat. Why don't you get some shut-eye? I'll stay up and keep watch."

"You sure, Skipper? I can take my turn too."

"Fine. I'll wake you if I need you."

"Thanks, Skipper. And thanks again for the...prescription." Gilligan put his head down, his eyes soon closing.

The Skipper watched Gilligan's slowly rising and falling chest. There was no noise but the soft crackle of the fire and murmur of the jungle insects. The Skipper looked up at the tops of the trees, invisible in the darkness. "If you're out there, little guy," he murmured, "watch out for him, okay?"

When Gilligan awoke, the first thing he noticed was that it was still night. The moon was out now, glowing in the treetops, but the fire had gone out. He looked across to the Skipper's blanket.

It was empty.

Gilligan looked all around. There was nothing but rustling darkness and shimmering moonlight around him.

"Skipper? Skipper, where are you?" Gilligan pushed back his blanket and rose to his knees. "Skipper? Skipper, can you hear me? Where are you?" At last he clambered to his feet, straining to see if he could spot the big man. "Answer me!"

And from somewhere beyond the pool came a soft, sharp cry, as of something in pain.

Gilligan gasped. "Little fella? Where are you? Are you okay?" Without even bothering to get his crutch, he hurried down the path towards the sound, to the dense wall of foliage that hid the little glade. The cry sounded again, further off now. He slid through the break in the bushes and raced on through the jungle, past the tall, wraithlike forms of the palm trees and shadowy bushes. Ever before him was that plaintive cry. And then came another sound: the terrible crack of a rifle shot. The cry became a scream.

Gilligan stopped, heart heaving. Then, with a deep breath, he charged forward to where a glade opened out before him: a glade lit by an incandescent moon. Standing at the far end was a man in safari gear, his rifle still pointed towards the ground. Gilligan looked down to see a small, spotted shape lying in the moonlit grass. The young sailor dashed over and scooped the little creature up in his arms. There was a bright gash of red on its thigh.

Alll of his fear shrivelled in the furnace of his anger. "You _monster_! All you know how to do is destroy! What did he ever do to you?"

Jonathan Kinkaid turned his cool gaze to the first mate. "No more than the boys at Pearl Harbour, Gilligan. Why? What are you going to do about it?"

Gilligan's blue eyes blazed. "I'm going to save him. And I'm going to stop you!"

The hunter smiled. "Be careful, Gilligan. The jaguar is a terrible beast."

"I know," said Gilligan. At that moment the margay opened its great yellow eyes and looked straight up at him. "Don't be afraid," Gilligan whispered. "I've got you."

There was a deep, coughing grunt from the jungle. Gilligan stood firm, the margay cradled in his arms.

The jaguar burst from the darkness in all its power and passion and deadly grace. The little margay craned its head to look, but Gilligan held it back. "No, don't go near him. You're never supposed to meet!"

He stood there holding the little cat as its giant cousin leapt upon the hunter, and as before, Kinkaid struggled and screamed beneath those steaming jaws. " Call it off! My God, call it off!"

Gilligan was about to open his mouth when suddenly the margay sprang from his arms and streaked across the grass like a yellow flash of light, heading straight for the deadly struggle. "Stop!" Gilligan shouted, charging after the little creature. "He's too dangerous!"

The margay had nearly reached the pair when the jaguar lunged down and gave that single, awful bite. Then, red with tooth and claw, it raised its great head to glare at its tiny lookalike.

Not two feet from the monster, the margay faced it fearlessly, hissing and lashing its long tail back and forth. Its yellow eyes shone like twin moons.

And the jaguar, staring, slowly backed away.

Gilligan dropped to his knees at the margay's side, breathless with wonder. When he saw that the jaguar would not approach, he reached down and carefully turned Kinkaid's head towards him. The hunter strove to focus. "Impossible," he gurgled weakly. "That little thing...stronger...than a jaguar?"

"I never knew how strong he was," whispered the first mate. "He would have saved you, but you'd hurt him. He couldn't get to you in time."

For a moment Kinkaid's eyes seemed to focus in understanding. Then his head fell back, and the pain-wracked eyes closed.

The margay crouched down, quiet and subdued. "You tried," Gilligan said. "It wasn't your fault." Then he looked up at the huge jaguar, with its dripping tongue and strange, familiar eyes. "It wasn't your fault either. I owe you my life...maybe even the lives of the others, too. I couldn't have done it without you."

The beast began to pad towards him.

"No," Gilligan said quietly. "You've got to go back, deep into in the jungle. You can't come back to the Skipper and the others with me. You'd frighten them too much; you even frighten me. I hope I never need you again, but at least if I do, I know where to find you."

The great cat regarded him for a moment more. Then it turned and slowly, noiselessly paced back into the shadows. When Gilligan looked down again, he saw that the hunter's body had vanished. Even the grass grew straight and undisturbed, as though he had never been there at all.

Gilligan gave a great sigh and stroked the margay, marveling at how the black patterns on its coat looked like moonlight dappling the jungle floor. "Gosh, you were brave," he murmured. Suddenly Gilligan saw that the little beast's wound had healed over into a dark scar. "Hey! Look at that! The Skipper was right. You are going to be okay!" He drew back to look into its large eyes and smiled. "And now I think we'd better find the Skipper. He's probably worried sick about us!" Gently he lifted the margay and started walking back in the direction of the pool. "Skipper? Skipper? Where are you?"

"Gilligan!"

Gilligan gasped and sat up. It was morning, and he was beside the mango pool. Golden sunbeams glowed above the turquoise water, dappling the tender green of the trees. He looked over to where the Skipper sat nearby, peeling a mango with Gilligan's pocket knife.

"You looked so peaceful I didn't want to wake you. But then you started calling to me." The Skipper put down the mango. "You didn't have another nightmare, did you?"

"No. No, it was okay. I--" Gilligan suddenly looked around. "Hey, where's the little guy?"

"What, you mean the cat? I never saw him."

Gilligan crawled over to peer into the bushes. "But I was sure that he – hey!"

"What is it, little buddy?"

Gilligan lifted a square of tied cloth from the thick brush. "It's my handkerchief! The one I used to bandage the margay with! He must have pulled it off!"

"Oh. Well, if he did, maybe he really is okay."

Gilligan untied the handkerchief and shook it out. Then he turned it around and around, staring at it. "But where's the bloodstain? It's clean!" Gilligan looked up in confusion. "Did you wash it out, Skipper?"

"Me? No. I didn't even know it was there."

"But…" Gilligan closed his fingers over the piece of cloth. "That's impossible. I only dreamed his wound was all healed up! Like I dreamed that you left me during the night, Skipper." He looked up again. "Did you?" he asked hesitantly.

The Skipper's eyebrows rose and he smiled fondly. "Now that's a pretty dumb question, little buddy. Even for you."


	5. Chapter 5

Pink sunsets were rare on the island, but when they did occur, they were spectacular. The huge overarching Pacific Sky was glowing in bands of pale gold, softest coral and dusky rose, deepening to rich purple in the darkening east. Even the castaways' humble camp partook in the glory as the warm light burnished the grass huts to bronze and the bamboo table to mellow ivory.

As the five castaways prepared for dinner, the Professor shaded his eyes at the sunset. "Looks as though we've seen the last of the storms for this season. That sky indicates that the storm clouds have moved east of us with the jetstream."

"Back home the farmers have a saying about that colour of sky," said Mary Ann as she turned a grill filled with fish on a spit over the fire. "Red sky at night, shepherd's delight."

The Professor nodded. "Yes, that old saying's been attributed to a number of vocations that take a particular interest in the weather."

"Sailors, for example," said Mr. Howell quietly. "Dash it all, I do wish we'd hear something!"

Mary Ann looked at the seven place settings. "So do I! Oh, Professor, do you think I should wait dinner on them? I don't know what to do! We haven't heard a thing since the Skipper left last evening!"

"I wouldn't worry about it, Mary Ann. In fact, I'd say it's a very positive sign."

"Positive?" asked Ginger, coming up beside the Professor with her arms folded tightly in front of herself, as though she were cold. "Are you sure, Professor? I mean, if everything was all right, wouldn't they have come back by now?"

"It may be some time before things are 'all right,' Ginger," the Professor explained gently. "In fact, we may have to face the fact that Gilligan may never be quite the same as he was."

"But I don't want him to change," the tall redhead said softly. Sadly she lifted a slim wrist and looked at her watch. "Twenty nine hours…that's the longest we've ever gone without seeing him. The only other time that came close was when--"

"Now just stop it, Ginger." The Professor gently closed his fingers over her watch and pressed her arm down. "It's not like that at all. He's with the Skipper, and you know the Skipper will take very good care of him. And Gilligan must be comfortable with having the Skipper around, or the Skipper would have come back alone."

"Do you really think so, Professor?" asked Mrs. Howell. "I simply couldn't see the Captain allowing the boy to stay out there alone all night, no matter what the circumstances."

"True, Mrs. Howell," said the Professor, sighing. "But I sincerely hope we can put a more positive interpretation on events than that."

Suddenly a voice hailed them from the edge of the jungle. "Ahoy there! Anybody home?"

The five castaways turned to see a figure emerge out of the shadows: a single figure.

"Skipper!" Mary Ann cried, dropping her basting spoon on the ground. "Where's Gilligan? Why have you come back alone?"

The big man smiled. "I haven't. He's just a little slower than usual these days." He lifted his left hand for emphasis, and the castaways saw that he was carrying Gilligan's crutch.

Then they turned and stared in astonishment as Gilligan himself emerged from the jungle. Whether it was a trick of the light the castaways could not tell, but his face seemed to have lost its sickly pallor, and warmth glimmered in his eyes. But it was no trick that although he was walking slowly and carefully, he was _walking_, and he was actually carrying a pitcher.

"Looks like your water detail's over, Howell," laughed the Skipper. "He insisted on carrying it – at least for the last few yards or so."

Mary Ann and Ginger flew across the sand to them. "Gilligan!"

The Skipper grabbed the pitcher away moments before Gilligan had both arms full of redhead and brunette.

"You came back!"

"You're not crippled anymore!"

"Do you feel better?"

"Does your leg hurt?"

"Do you want some dinner?"

"Are you going to stay?"

Gilligan whipped his head back and forth. "Yes, no, yes, no, yes and yes." He blinked for a moment. "I think."

The Professor rushed up and eagerly shook the Skipper's hand. "Skipper, this is miraculous! Sigmund Freud couldn't have done better!"

The Howells approached, Mrs. Howell's diamond bracelet flashing as she clapped her hands in delight. "Oh, bravo, Captain!"

"Yes, jolly good show, old chap!"

"They're right, Skipper," said Gilligan quietly. "I think you saved my life."

"Oh, nonsense, little buddy. I didn't do anything. You did it all yourself." The Skipper's face suddenly appeared somewhat red in the failing light, and he rubbed at the corner of his eye and sniffed. Then he drew himself up, sniffing again. "Seems like we got back just in time! That fish smells great, Mary Ann!"

She smiled from under Gilligan's arm. "Well, you can thank Mr. Howell for them, Skipper! He turned out to be a pretty good provider while you and Gilligan were away!"

Mrs. Howell patted her husband's cheek. "Yes, Thurston, you were simply marvelous!"

"Oh, come now, Lovey. Give credit where credit is due. After all, it was the Professor's idea."

"But it was you who caught the fish, Mr. Howell," said the Professor, smiling. "I only found the shallow river bed where they were spawning."

"I never knew you were an angler, Mr. Howell!" said the Skipper.

"I'm not, Captain. But I am a rather remarkable golfer, if I do say so myself. I just waded barefoot into the stream with my driver and whack! Whack! Whack! There on the shore was a veritable feast!"

The Skipper joined in the castaways' laughter. "Well, Isaac Walton, you did a great job! And we can wash it down with this!" He hoisted the pitcher for emphasis.

"What is that, Skipper?" asked Ginger.

"It's water from that pool. It must be fed by an underground spring or something. Best water I've ever tasted."

"We drew it first thing this morning after we got up," said Gilligan. "Afterwards I went swimming, and my leg felt lots better afterwards!"

The Professor almost smote his forehead in self-deprecation. "Oh, of course! Why didn't I think of that? Water exercise is often recommended for physical therapy, especially in the case of injuries to the extremities!"

"Works good on legs too," said Gilligan.

"What else did you do there all day?" asked Ginger, still clinging to his arm. She gave a little sheepish smile. "We were kind of worried about you!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Ginger. We should have thought of that, but we just kind of lost track of time, I guess." He shrugged. "It's so peaceful there. We just talked and talked about stuff…reminisced about our days in the navy, that kind of thing. And we ate those provisions you packed for us, Mary Ann. Thanks for the coconut cream pie, by the way. It was great!"

"You're welcome. Gee…I'm not surprised you stayed so long. It is a lovely place," said Mary Ann. "But so hard to find! I don't think I could ever find it again!"

"Neither could I, to tell you the truth," said the Skipper. "Yesterday was just luck, I think."

"It wasn't luck, Skipper," said Gilligan, smiling. "I don't think you'll have trouble again."

"I'd sure like to find my way back there. I'd love to meet your little friend, Gilligan. Did you see him again?" asked Mary Ann.

"Well…I'll tell you all about it after dinner, okay? Right now I'm starved!"

"Me too," laughed the Skipper. "Let's eat!"

After Mary Ann had cleared the last of the dessert plates and they were all lingering over coffee, Gilligan looked up and nodded at the Skipper. The Skipper suddenly cleared his throat and called for attention. "Now hear this, folks. My little buddy has something he wants to explain to you. Something he told me about today."

The castaways were all attention as Gilligan rested his chin on his clasped hands. His eyes, with their faraway look, held the clarity of the mango pool.

"Well, it's like this, everybody. I-I think I kind of shocked you all by what I said yesterday morning…but you didn't hear the whole story, because I didn't remember it then. The last couple of weeks, everthing's been mixed up in my head. What with the hunt, and my leg, and the quicksand, I've just been spinning around like the Minnow did in that storm. And there were a lot of things I just didn't want to remember."

The castaways nodded in silent sympathy, but Gilligan's face was lightening with wonder. "But this morning, everything seemed so different. The pool was beautiful again. The light was shining through the trees, and it just looked like diamonds on the water. And everything was so still."

The castaways waited patiently, watching each nuance of expression that played across Gilligan's face.

"Well, the Skipper took a nap after breakfast, and I wanted to go swimming, but I was afraid the splashing might wake him up, so I just knelt down by the pool and splashed some water on my face, real quiet-like. It was so fresh and cool, and it felt like it was washing all the cobwebs out of my head. Then I took a drink. You've tasted it now: it's like no other water I've ever had, it's so pure. And while I was leaning over the water I saw something out of the corner of my eye, and I looked up." Gilligan's face brightened into a smile like the dawn over the island's mountains. "It was the little guy."

"The margay!" whispered Mary Ann. "He came back?"

"Yeah! He was crouched not two feet from me, lapping up water out of the pool, you know, the way cats do? Well, I was so happy to see him but I couldn't yell, 'cause I didn't want to scare him and I didn't want to wake the Skipper, so I just whispered to him. He looked up at me with those huge yellow eyes, and he came over and let me touch him. Oh, the way he moves…he just seems to float. And he's so soft. Your hand just kind of disappears into his fur." Gilligan laughed softly and shook his head. "Sorry. I could go on all day. But I looked at his leg and saw that the wound had healed over real good. There was just a scar. And then, all of a sudden, he turned around, and I swear he jumped eight feet straight up into the trees. It was like he flew! He just vanished into the leaves, and the vines were still swaying high up over my head where he'd jumped. And that sight made me remember something – something that I only half-remembered from a dream."

The castaways waited expectantly under the dancing shadows of the tiki torches.

"I was so excited I woke up the Skipper to tell him." Gilligan smiled a little sheepishly. "Sorry, Skipper."

The Skipper raised his eyebrows, smiling. "You've woken me up for worse things. But it wasn't as if what you told me was any big surprise. I could have guessed."

The first mate held his eyes gratefully for a moment, then took a very deep breath. "I finally remembered what had happened when Kinkaid was struggling in the quicksand. It was horrible, but I remembered that when he was struggling and screaming for help, I _did_ try to get him out. I tried to grab some of the vines from the tree branch above my head, but he'd already shot me, and I couldn't stand long enough to reach them. And I remembered that when I first set the trap and took the vines away, I didn't mean to kill him. I meant to get him out - just after he'd thrown away his gun. But when he shot me, I knew I wouldn't be able to save him. It was him or me."

Mary Ann looked at him in quiet awe. "Gilligan, you didn't need to tell us all this either. We could have guessed too."

"I suspect it was only your fear of the intensity of your own primal emotions that caused your anxiety, Gilligan," said the Professor. "However, I hope you realize that none of us here ever blamed you for what you did. If anything, we feel at fault because we hadn't the courage or resourcefulness to stop Kinkaid ourselves. And in light of what you've just said…I don't think any one of us has your compassion, either."

Mr. Howell shook his head in horror and pity. "Kinkaid was a ravening beast, and you found pity in your heart even for him. You're nothing like him, my boy. No beast feels compassion."

"Perhaps the jaguar does," said Gilligan to himself.

"The jaguar?" asked the Professor, curious.

Gilligan seemed to shake himself awake. "Oh, sorry, Professor. Just something Kinkaid said to me the night before the hunt, when he was holding me prisoner in the hut. He said he was bored with hunting animals because it was too easy. He'd hunted the jaguar in the Amazon jungle and even that wasn't a challenge anymore. That was why he wanted to hunt people." The young sailor's eyes grew troubled. "And I've got the feeling that if he'd killed me, he never would have stopped. It's an awful thing to think, but…maybe this was for the best, even for him."

Mrs. Howell spoke up. "Oh, Gilligan, dear boy, can you doubt it? When I think of what that man would have done to you – what he could have done to all of us!"

"I know. I was afraid for you all. But you're all wrong about one thing: you shouldn't feel guilty. I know you tried to help me. But none of us was prepared for anything like him."

"He almost took you from us. But you won't change on us, will you, Gilligan?" asked Ginger, laying a hand on his. "I know you'll always have that scar…"

His fingers tightened around hers for a moment. "It's all right, Ginger. It'll remind me that I survived. And that we're all safe, and together."

Thurston Howell nodded his head emphatically. "Well said, my boy! In fact, in light of recent events, I propose we refrain from lighting the signal fires for a few weeks' time! We'll just let the ships and planes go on past for a little while, and leave us in peace!"

"Absolutely, Thurston!" said his wife. "I was planning the annual Howell Cotillion before all this began; now things can finally start to get back to normal. Oh, I have a thousand things to do!" She held up her hands in excitement. "And I am so delighted my allergy seems to be gone! Darling, I insist that when we're rescued, the first thing we'll do is adopt a cat.

"If you say so, my dear," said Mr. Howell. "We'll spare no expense. What shall it be? A Persian? A Russian Blue?"

"A cheetah!"

The castaways gaped. "A cheetah?" choked Thurston Howell the Third.

"Yes!" Mrs. Howell beamed. "Just wait until I stroll down the avenue with _that _on a leash! I'll show that Melissa Vandemere!"

A few nights later, the Professor and the Skipper stood outside the crew's hut, looking in the window at the candlelit interior. The Professor clutched his rattan bed under his arm. "Well, I can't deny it'll be nice to be in my own bed again," he whispered. "It was a little tricky climbing into that hammock. But you say he got into it himself tonight?"

"That's right, Professor," the Skipper whispered back as he peered through the window at the sleeping form in the upper hammock. "Had no trouble at all. I have the feeling we kept him hanging onto that crutch a lot longer than he had to. We were such a pair of mother hens we sort of used it as…as a crutch, I guess." He laughed softly.

"I suppose we were. Still, he has made a remarkable progress, in more ways than one." The Professor suddenly looked very thoughtful. "I'm curious, Skipper. Did you ever see Gilligan's margay?"

"No, not once. Gilligan hasn't seen it either since the day I was with him at the pool, but he figures it's still hiding in the trees there."

"Hmmm. It's extraordinary that the creature ever approached him at all. They're usually quite solitary. But I guess it's no more strange than the idea of a South American wild cat being on this island in the first place. I suppose there must have been another ship bound for a zoo that lost its cargo."

"Well, wherever that little guy came from, he was a godsend." The Skipper yawned heavily. "Oh, I think I'll turn in. I could sleep for a week!"

"That makes two of us."

"Well, thanks, Professor. Thanks for all your help."

"All I gave him was a bed," said the Professor. "You got him to get up and walk."

The Skipper smiled and clapped the Professor on the shoulder. "And it's a mighty good feeling, too. Goodnight, Professor."

"Good night, Skipper."

The Skipper slipped soundlessly inside. Before blowing the candles out, he took one last look at his first mate, sound asleep in his hammock. "Pleasant dreams, little buddy," the Skipper whispered, and blew out the lights.

And over the camp, the pool and the jungle the moon glowed, as bright as the moon above the Amazon.

_Information on WWII taken from __World War II Database_

_Dedicated, with the greatest respect, to the United States Navy._


End file.
